


When Thorin Met Tauriel

by Saraleee



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Romance, all the way to the end, but things only get really sad in the last chapter, filling in some blank spots in the story of The Hobbit, following the story line of The Hobbit, so skip the last chapter and you'll be fine, what happened to Thorin while in Thranduil's dungeon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraleee/pseuds/Saraleee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is meant to fit around the main story of “The Hobbit,” the book version, with a few movie elements added.</p><p>I wrote this in Jan./Feb. 2012 (added final chapter in May 2012), a long time before The Hobbit: AUJ came out, so I didn't know much about how the story would play out on screen. My point was to show that Thorin could indeed be a romantic hero. I'd say RA has proven me right! Didn't know if any dwarf would have a close relationship with Tauriel. Didn't even know what color Tauriel's hair was going to be.</p><p>Where the story begins: Thorin and Company enter Mirkwood and are taken captive by King Thranduil’s Elves. Thorin is imprisoned in a cell by himself. It is the task of the elf Tauriel, Chief of the Mirkwood Guard, to act as his jailer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tauriel peered curiously at the dwarf in the prison cell. Why should elves bother with such a one? The patrol should have shot him full of arrows, or let the spiders take him.

He looked harmless enough now, slumped on the cell’s bench. A tangle of granite-colored hair spread over his face. His blocky form was covered in dark, heavy fabric studded with bits of shiny metal, like flecks of mica in stone. Perhaps the rockiness was natural for his kind. Dwarves lived in tunnels underground. Tauriel knew all the stories. 

She wouldn’t have minded if he had become a spider’s lunch. But the King had said to put the dwarf in the dungeon, and now it was Tauriel’s duty to guard him. 

She sighed. Although she was Captain of the Guards, guard duty was not fun. It was dark in the dungeon. There was nothing to do except stay there, watch the prisoner, and try not to get bored. Usually she was able to avoid serving as a guard herself—simply a matter of proper scheduling. However, it was better for morale if she took the occasional shift, so she stood regular guard duty at least once a moon. 

And last time, she’d guarded Lothiel—that had been fun, because he'd spent the whole time arguing with her and pleading to be let out. She’d pretended to consider it and once she’d even picked up her keys, enjoying the bright eager look that came into the thief’s eyes. But she'd put the keys right down again, and given him a tongue-lashing for daring to think that she, the Captain, would shirk her solemn duty. 

“I need water,” the dwarf said, startling her. One bright blue eye was open and glaring at her. “Or do you plan to let me die of thirst?” He struggled to sit up without using his hands, which were bound behind him. Cuts and bruises covered his face, and he winced as he righted himself. He looked even more rocklike sitting up.

Tauriel exhaled slowly. The dwarf's sudden speech had caught her by surprise. She nodded toward the small table on his left, which held a carved wooden pitcher and a drinking cup. “The water is clean.”

He curled his lip. “How do you expect me to lift the cup?”

The elves who had brought him in should have freed his hands. What was she, a servant to be attending to the prisoner's basic needs? Huffing out an impatient breath, she grabbed the keys from her belt and opened the cell door. “Stay where you are.”

He sat back and raised his eyebrows, his eyes fixed on her. 

She sloshed some water into the cup and put it up to his lips. “Drink it.”

After a long moment, he drank. He gulped as much as he could, awkwardly, and she helped him drink until he’d emptied the pitcher. His panting breaths revealed how thirsty he’d been. 

After a moment, the dwarf spoke. “Thank you.” In the lamplight, the sharp angles of his face looked resentful, as if he regretted having to show even a tiny amount of gratitude. “For the water.”

She shook her head, dismissing his thanks. 

He watched her as if weighing her. Testing her. “The bonds on my wrists are tied too tightly. If you don’t free me soon, I’ll lose my hands.” 

She rolled her eyes. Did this dwarf believe she would fall for a pathetic, childish trick like that? She’d come up with cleverer dodges before she’d climbed her first tree.

“You don’t believe me? Take off my gloves and see for yourself.” 

Carefully she approached him and tugged off one glove. To her dismay, she saw that the hand was purpling with a lack of circulation. Or was that normal for dwarves? How was she supposed to know? The dwarf’s hand was bigger than she expected, callused, with square, blunt fingers and a wide thumb. 

He glared at her over his shoulder. “You see? It would be more merciful just to cut them off.”

She flexed her own fingers, imagining what it would be like to lose the use of her hands, and felt a little sick. Troubled, she gathered up the cup and pitcher and re-locked the cell door. Sitting down again in the shadowy nook intended for jailers, she tried to sort out what she should do. 

Usually, the patrol would search their captives, remove all weapons, and bind them to ensure they could be led to the dungeon without any trouble. Once they were in their cell, the patrol released the bonds. This time, they hadn't done so. Had they just been careless, or was this prisoner extremely dangerous? 

She strode down the corridor to the hidden door that led out into the forest, and whispered to the archer stationed there. “The patrol left the prisoner's hands bound. Go to the King, and ask if I am permitted to cut his bonds.”

She watched as he made his unhurried way through the trees to the front of the palace. Sethiel, his name was. He was an ambitious young elf, confident of his abilities and never eager to follow orders. She shook her head, then looked around the forest, gauging the progress of the night.

The air was calm and clear, spiced with the crisp scent of early autumn. A few stars twinkled through the canopy of leaves overhead. The trees were at ease. The hour was early—it would be a long while before a regular patrol would pass by, and there was no telling when the archer would return with instructions. For now she would have to manage on her own. Gloomily, she returned to her prisoner. 

He looked up as she approached. Something about the sharpness of his eyes reminded her of a falcon she’d once known. Funny to think that this dwarf, a creature who lived in the earth, resembled a being that belonged in the sky. She smiled.

“Enjoying yourself?” he growled. 

She wiped the smile off her face. “More than you are.” 

She grasped the iron bars of the cell and looked at him thoughtfully. He shifted his hands slightly, as if to ease the pain of the bonds. She could see the skin puffed up around the one exposed wrist. 

She should wait for the archer to come back. This was not some ordinary thief or mischief maker, but a stranger—a dwarf, one who had nearly dragged down a full patrol of elves before being taken captive. He had resembled a great stag beset by hounds, Dantiel had told her. It had been a terrifying battle, he’d said. 

What did she know of dwarves, anyway? She’d never even seen a dwarf before. She’d be glad never to see one again. The king himself had ordered him to be placed here. The king should decide what to do, not Tauriel.

“Will you untie my wrists?”

“No,” she replied sharply. Dropping her hands from the bars, she drew back. But his exposed hand was swollen, and unpleasant to look at. She pressed her lips tightly together. “We’ll see.”

“I’m already your prisoner,” he reminded her. “Locked in this…very secure cage of yours. Why do you need to keep me tied up as well?”

Ah. Pleading and arguing. Now this game, she understood. She gave him a smile, bright and cold as the crescent moon in winter. “You tell me, dwarf. What are you planning to do? Escape?”

“How can I?”

She crossed her arms. “You must think I’m very foolish indeed. And it is a very secure cage, when you don’t have any weapons or tools. You were searched.”

“I know that.” He shifted restlessly. “So, am I going to lose my hands?”

What a terrible fate that would be. A wave of nausea threatened her and she beat it down. “Don’t be stupider than you can help.” 

His shoulders sank. She thought he sighed.

She clenched her fist. Where was that archer with orders from the king? She hated to take such an action without permission, but to leave him tied and helpless would be sheer cruelty. Pulling a dagger from its sheath on her hip, she marched to the cell bars. “Reach your hands through the bars.”

He obeyed. She sliced through the tight bonds on his wrists then turned on her heel, retreating to the jailer’s nook. The dwarf sat heavily down on the bench, rubbing his hands and wrists against his thighs.   
There hadn't been time to wait for the archer's return, Tauriel told herself. Besides, she felt sure of what the order would have been. Elves weren't needlessly cruel. Now, she would simply watch the prisoner carefully all the time and when word finally came to untie his hands… she would have merely anticipated the king’s command. 

She watched the dwarf as he flexed his fingers gingerly, testing them as the livid color receded. There was something grim and purposeful about his actions, like a wood-elf checking his weapons before the hunt. But this dwarf was a stranger to hunting, to the woodland; a stranger to everything in her life. He was a creature of rocks and darkness.

“How can you stand it?” she asked abruptly. 

He glanced over at her. “Stand what?”

“Being always in the dark, not having any green growing things around you,” she said. “Living like moles burrowing underground. How can you stand to live like that?”

The faintest smile ghosted over his lips. “Is that what you think? That we dwarves live like animals in the dirt? No. We live in palaces of stone, with pillars as tall as trees and ceiling vaults as high above our heads as the clouds are in the sky. Our rivers sing as they dance over the rocks in the deep, and our walls are studded with gems that sparkle like tame stars. My home—my real home—is bright with gold that shines like the sun. It is much more beautiful than any forest.”

She laughed, delighted. “Not possible. Nothing’s as beautiful as a forest. In the forest, dew-drops sparkle like stars made new every day. We have the music of rivers and birds. The day brings every color of the rainbow. And who needs gold? We have the sun already.” She thought for a moment. “But your home sounds...lovely, in its way.”

He sighed. “It is.”

She leaned forward, eager to hear more of the story. “Then why leave your home? What do you want with us?”

His face darkened. “We never left. We were driven out,” he growled. “We want nothing from you elves. What we do is none of your business.”

Hurt, she snapped, “Haughty dwarf! You’re our prisoner.”

Scowling, he folded his arms and bowed his head.

She sat in her jailer's nook, playing with her dagger. It was a bad practice to become distracted while on guard duty, but she couldn't just sit there doing absolutely nothing. Tauriel picked up a leaf and made a small slit with the dagger, then blew through the hole. It made a tiny piping sound. She blew into her improvised whistle a couple more times, then got bored. The silence lengthened.

“Where are the others?” The dwarf's voice roused her from her thoughts. She looked up to find him staring at her, glowering under his dark brows. 

“Others? There are other dwarves in the forest?” No one had mentioned other dwarves to her. She put on a sneer. “Don't worry. If they escape the spiders, we'll capture your friends just as easily as we caught you.”

“I'm not surprised to know you wood-elves are in league with the spiders,” he growled. “Murderous, flesh-eating monsters—they're probably your distant kin.”

She jumped up and strode over to the cell. “No, they’re not. But what kind of monsters are your kin, dwarf? Probably some kind of cave-dwelling, gold-loving, cold-hearted killers. Like dragons.”

With terrifying speed he lunged at her, crashing against the cage-like barrier between them. His hands gripped the bars, tore at them with ferocious power. The iron bars shivered and creaked. She jumped back, her heart jammed high in her throat. 

His voice was hoarse with rage. “A dragon killed my people, drove us from our home, took everything from us. Don't you ever compare me to one of them. Ever.”

She lifted her chin, glaring at him. She hadn't expected him to move so fast and he was much stronger than she'd anticipated. Clearly she'd been wrong to worry about him losing the strength of his hands. She should never have cut the bonds. Too late now. 

But she had goaded him into this rage—and there was pain as well as fury in his eyes. 

“The last time I saw my home, it was a charred and smoking ruin,” the dwarf went on. “A lifetime ago, but I can still hear the screams and smell the burnt flesh. Everything peaceful and good was destroyed, our wealth stolen by that foul, poisonous worm Smaug. All we could do was weep and starve. And did anyone help us then? Any elf, who had benefited by trading with us? No. Of course not. Why would you care?”

Fire and loss and heartbreak—these were hurts she knew too well. A sudden stab of remembered pain lanced through her and she reached out her hand in instinctive sympathy. He jerked backward, then looked at her in frowning puzzlement. 

She dropped her hand. Oh, she was a fool. “You are right. Why should any elf care?”

“It doesn't matter whether you care or not,” he said fiercely. “One way or another, I am going to get out of this cell, and I am going to find and kill the dragon. I'm taking back what is mine. The dwarves are going to live under the mountain again, and nothing is going to stand in my way.”

A rustling sound from the doorway caught her ear. Finally, the archer was back with her answer. She felt her shoulders relax as a small amount of tension fell away. 

She shrugged. “It's nothing to me. You can have your mountain and everything in it, for all I care. Give me sunlight and air and good things to eat, and you can keep every rock and tunnel in creation.”

The dwarf's anger receded as quickly as it had been roused. He grinned, his teeth a surprisingly bright flash in the dim jail. “Fair enough.”

Frowning, she turned away from him to see what was keeping the archer from reporting to her. She stepped outside, but no one was there. A pair of squirrels scampered overhead, chittering in angry dispute over a cache of nuts. It must have been the squirrels she'd heard. Sighing with disappointment, she went back to her prisoner. 

She sat down in the jailer's nook and began digging in the wall with the point of her dagger. Surely the archer would be back soon. 

“What's your name?” asked the dwarf. 

Hah. Now he was playing games. Without turning her head, she slid her gaze toward him. One corner of her mouth quirked up. “What's yours, dwarf?” she countered. 

“Why should I tell you?” He stretched out his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. 

Vastly pleased with the game they were playing, she replied, “So I don't have to keep calling you 'dwarf.' Or 'prisoner.' Or 'you, there.'”

He laced his fingers together and tucked them behind his head. “I might not be here long enough for it to matter what you call me.”

“Or you might be here for a very long time,” she pointed out. She looked at him consideringly. He wasn’t evil. Dangerous, yes, certainly—she wondered again if she'd done the right thing in freeing his hands. But she'd had to do that—his bonds had been much too tight. Still, the dwarf's pain was understandable, as was his desire to regain his home. And it seemed he could be friendly when it suited him. 

“I'll tell you my name if you tell me yours,” he offered.

“You first.”

“Thorin,” he said. He was staring at her intently, watching her so carefully that she wondered what she was missing. Was there something about this game she had not understood?

She took a deep breath and put all her charm into her smile. “I'm Tauriel.”


	2. Chapter 2

He was alone. His quest could end—along with his life—here in this dark prison, leagues away from Erebor. No one would know what had happened to him. 

All that anyone would ever know would be that he had failed.

But he hadn’t failed yet. He forced himself to focus, patiently turning the problem over in his mind like a metalsmith working a rough chunk of iron. His elf jailer was proving an interesting challenge. Like quicksilver, she was unpredictable and therefore potentially dangerous. She was also curious as a kitten, and as easily distracted. He could use that. He wondered how.

She was digging in the wall with the point of her dagger again. 

“Don’t do that,” he growled, unable to help himself. 

She paused and frowned at him. “Do what?”

“You’re going to ruin the edge of the blade for no good reason,” he said. His whetstone was still attached to his belt, overlooked by his elven captors. He untied it and offered it to her. “Here. Use this.”

She blinked, but didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on him.

He snorted in disbelief. “Do you even know how to use a whetstone?”

“Of course I know,” she snapped. “It should have been taken from you when you arrived.”

She rose in one fluid motion, the dagger in one hand. With her other hand, she picked a crabapple from a wooden bowl on the table. She threw the apple in the air, then sent the dagger flying toward it. The flashing blade sliced the fruit in half before landing with a solid thunk in the wall. 

He crossed his arms and glowered at her. 

She wrenched the dagger out of the wall, then strode back to the table. With two fingertips she lifted up a slender green leaf—one she’d been playing with earlier—and delicately sheared the leaf in half with the razorlike blade. 

“Elf-forged,” she told him triumphantly. “My daggers are always sharp. And always ready.” She shoved the dagger back into one of a pair of sheaths that rode low on her hips. As it slid into place, he heard a metallic “snick.” 

The sound pleased him more than anything he’d heard in days. He grinned. “And you carry them in dwarf-made sheaths.” 

Her eyes narrowed.

With a wave of his hand, he gestured toward her weapon belt. “They are made with a catch at the top, so that only the wearer can release the dagger. Wouldn’t do to have an enemy use your own weapon against you.”

She stepped toward him and reached her hand through the bars of the cell. “Give me the whetstone.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

She smiled and wiggled her fingers. 

He held his rising temper in check. He reminded himself he was supposed to be creating an atmosphere of camaraderie between them. Getting her to trust him. He handed her the whetstone. “Best to keep your daggers sharp. It’s what our women do.”

Her eyes brightened with curiosity at the mention of dwarf women, as he’d expected. “Do dwarf women fight with knives, then?”

It had been a long time since he’d been around any dwarf women. He barely knew how to explain. He picked his words carefully. “They can fight, but they don’t. Not often. They—” he paused. “Dwarf women are practical. They are very good at taking care of others. They don’t think fighting is very sensible. So they don’t.”

“They don’t fight.” The elf sat down, looking thoughtful, and the expression looked oddly out of place on her mobile features. She held the whetstone loosely in her lap. 

“But they can,” he said. “Now it’s my turn to ask a question.”

It was almost comical how quickly the elf reacted. She snapped, “Who said we were taking turns?” 

He congratulated himself on having read her correctly. Knowing the enemy—it was the first step towards victory. He tried to look innocent. “It’s only fair.”

“This isn’t a game, dwarf.” 

“My name is Thorin,” he countered. “You’re Tauriel. And that’s my whetstone. I expect it back when this is all sorted out.” 

She glared at him. “I’m the Captain of the Guard. You may address me as Captain.” She looked down at the smooth rounded stone in her hand, then closed her fingers over it tightly. “It shouldn’t have been overlooked when you were searched. I won’t be returning it to you.”

“Not at the moment, at least,” he agreed. “You can use it for now.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You probably have other blades that need sharpening, though,” he suggested. “Everyone needs to keep their weapons sharp, right?”

“Yes.” She gave him a tight, smug smile. “So now you’ve asked a question and I’ve answered it. It’s my turn.” 

“I only asked because I was concerned,” he lied. Casually, he went on, “If there were many elves here in the forest, say, hundreds or thousands, you’d need plenty of metal tools just to survive. Not just special elf-forged daggers. So someone must know how to make and mend all the equipment you need. Unless there were dwarves nearby, and you traded with them.”

“Of course there are many elves. Mirkwood is large. There are thousands of us, all loyal to the King. And we take care of our own tools. But we don’t trade with dwarves, only with the men of—” she stopped. “It’s my turn to ask. Now I get two questions.”

Thorin nodded. Mentally he hoarded the bits of information she’d let slip. Thousands of elves—probably there were not that many, but still more than he could deal with by himself. They traded with men, and they were ruled by a King. It would be difficult to keep his mission a secret from the ruler of the elves. Kings, in his experience, were always looking for ways to acquire more wealth. If Thorin wasn’t careful, the Elf King would find a way to demand the dragon’s hoard for himself, after the dwarves had obtained it at their own considerable peril.

He braced himself for the Captain’s questions. He watched warily as she tucked a lock of her long dark hair behind her ear and thought about what to ask. She had the slender limbs, long fingers, and delicately pointed features of elvenkind, but he knew from experience that elves were not weak. If Tauriel was the Captain of the Guard, she was probably a strong and capable fighter. It wouldn’t be easy to defeat her in combat.

“Do they play?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Dwarf women. Do they play games? What do they do for fun?”

“For fun?” he echoed. He tried to conjure up an image of dwarf women—or any dwarf—playing. Nothing came to mind. Singing came close, but he wasn’t going to talk about that to her. Finally he offered, “We work. We make things.”

She frowned, clearly puzzled, and then shrugged. Apparently dwarf ways were not worth trying to understand. She narrowed her eyes at him. “And my second question is, what do they look like?”

Tired of the game, Thorin stood and paced the width of his cell. It only took a couple of strides to cover the small space, which had bars on three sides and a wall at the back. This was useless and humiliating. There was no point in trying to satisfy her idle curiosity at the cost of his own self-respect, especially not when the information he gleaned in return was so sparse. 

A younger elf, dressed in a greenish tunic and carrying a bow and quiver, strode in. Relieved to be off the hook, Thorin settled back to watch the Captain deal with her subordinate.

 

Tauriel turned to face Sethiel. Finally, the archer was back with an answer! She scowled at him. “Took you long enough.” 

Sethiel shook back his long golden hair. A dissatisfied pout exaggerated the full curve of his lips, and his dark eyes held more confidence than knowledge. He was one of the more troublesome of the young archers under her command. Family lineage carried more weight among the Mirkwood elves than it ought to, in Tauriel’s opinion, and Sethiel was a case in point. The handsome young elf’s expression verged on insolence as he considered the prisoner striding around the cell, hands clearly unbound. 

“The prisoner’s bonds may be loosed, provided he is secure in his cell and well-guarded,” Sethiel announced, as if handing down his own judgment. He eyed Tauriel with a smirk. “But I see you have anticipated the King’s orders. Captain.”

That little hesitation before he acknowledged her rank had crossed the line. Family or no family, this one would show her the respect she deserved—the respect she’d worked for over the years since she and Tuviel had arrived in this part of the Wood, empty-handed, hungry, coughing and scorched by flame.

Clamping her mouth shut, Tauriel stood in front of the younger elf and fixed an unwinking glare on him. The moment stretched out. Sethiel began to fidget. Tauriel didn’t budge.

A few more seconds passed. The younger elf’s face grew red, and he looked away. “Um, may I return to my post, Captain?”

She continued to stare at him. 

He straightened up and saluted her. “Permission to return to my post, Captain.”

Tauriel nodded curtly, then turned on her heel. She could hear his steps rapping smartly down the corridor, fading away. 

Quickly she glanced over at the prisoner. She was sure he had been listening to every nuance of that exchange, greedy for any sign of discord among his captors, anything he could use against them to win his freedom. He wasn’t fooling her for a moment—the dwarf was clever, she could tell. Clever and dangerous.

He interested her. He didn’t look like the dwarves she’d imagined—she’d thought they would look like potatoes on legs, lumpy and dusty. Thorin had the sharp features and alertness of a raptor. There was power in his short, blocky frame; he moved in a sure and controlled way. With every question he asked, she could sense his probing intelligence, trying to fit facts and impressions together, building a mental picture of his captors and his captivity. And he seemed to have a wry, dry sense of humor despite his predicament. 

But she was clever and dangerous too. She tapped her forefinger lightly against her lips, thinking, and then strode down the corridor after Sethiel. 

The young archer was talking in a low voice to an older elf, this one wearing the robes of the Court. She recognized the King's butler, Galion. The butler paused at her approach and bowed politely to her. “Ah, Captain. I was just on my way in to inform you that you will be continuing your good work as guard to our prisoner.” 

Shock filled her veins with ice water. “Surely there are others who can—”

The dignified old elf cut her off with an airy gesture. “I know how much you warriors love to get out and about, but His Majesty feels it imperative, in this case, that someone in a position of responsibility be charged with the task.”

“One of the ordinary guards would be more than capable or guarding the prisoner,” Tauriel protested. “My shift as a guard ends shortly, and my sister Tuviel—” 

“Will be quite comfortable at the Palace, Captain,” said the butler with a condescending smile. Tauriel’s heart sank as the meaning of his words sank in. Her fragile, naïve young sister was now trapped in the Royal snake pit of intrigue and deception. “Ruthien will look after her, I’m sure.”

Ruthien! That serpentine young minister had been angling for months to get friendly with Tuviel. Numbly, Tauriel struggled to hold on to her good manners as she continued to protest. “Then grant me a short leave to go and talk to her. I must—I need to—discuss some family matters with her.”

The butler waved her request away. “Surely the matter, whatever it is, can wait for a while. In the meantime, Captain,” he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “You are to find out everything about the dwarf’s plans here in Mirkwood.”

Tauriel gaped openmouthed at the smooth, polished-looking old elf in his rich robes. He smiled pleasantly. “I’m sure you will know just how to get him to open up.”


	3. Chapter 3

Several days dragged by, and each wasted minute scraped painfully against Thorin's nerves as it passed. 

As prisons went, it wasn't the worst he had ever been in. The cell was small but clean enough. The air was smoky from the torches which provided the only light. The food was adequate. But as far as he could tell he was the only captive, which worried him. Where were the others?

Most of his time was spent in the problematic company of the Captain of the Guards. Their conversations were the most enjoyable parts of his captivity—which meant they were also the most dangerous parts. Thorin knew he'd come perilously close to revealing the nature of his quest to her on that first night, when pain and exhaustion had weakened his defenses. 

But she hadn't reacted to his unwise speech; maybe she didn't even remember it. Judging from the attitude of that arrogant young snirp, Sethiel, who had barged into his cell several times to hector him with questions and empty threats, the Captain hadn't mentioned the matter to him.

Which only went to show, Thorin thought grimly, that the Captain had at least sense enough not to trust the younger elf. That didn't mean that she wouldn't run straight to the King, if Thorin told her the truth.

So Thorin gave her his cover story: He and the other dwarves were aimless wanderers, starving travelers, looking for food and work wherever they could find it. He was a tinker, a casual laborer, and a vagabond who wasn't above wielding a sword for hire. Sure, he had a fine blade—he'd won it fairly from its previous owner, in a fight he described with great relish and a wealth of extraneous detail. 

“You, a tinker? A laborer?” Tauriel snorted with derision. “No. You're used to being obeyed. And you ask about the other dwarves like a leader concerned about his team.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable. How else should he have asked about them? 

“What are you really doing in Mirkwood?” she asked. She was sitting with her feet up on a small table, looking relaxed, but she was playing with her daggers again. He'd noticed that she often fiddled with them, releasing the catches on the sheaths and then sliding the daggers home repeatedly. It was annoying, but he didn't want to bring her attention to the habit. She only did it when she was ill-at-ease.

“Looking for something to report to the King?” he jeered. 

She raised her eyebrows. “Planning anything he ought to know about?”

He shook his head. “My business is my own, and it doesn't concern the Elf King.”

“It's his kingdom,” she pointed out. "Everything that happens here concerns him.”

“It's my business. Kings have a bad habit of sticking their noses where they're not needed or wanted. And when they do, it's the king who end up taking the lion's share of the reward after others have done the work.”

She stared at him hard. “And when certain folk don't tell the King what he wants to know, they find themselves in worse trouble. Just some friendly advice.”

He shrugged and turned away. 

On other occasions, he spun her tales from his childhood. She seemed to like hearing of his earliest life in Erebor, his family intact and his every want satisfied. She didn't want to know about his dwarven ancestors and lineage—that bored her into writhing impatience—but when he told her about hiding behind Thror's throne during a game of hide-and-seek and being stuck there for hours during a court audience, she laughed. And when he told her about the solemn moment when he'd seen the great treasure of the dwarves, the glorious Arkenstone, for the first time, she looked transfixed with delight. 

She took a certain professional interest in the battle stories he told, but she seemed to prefer simple memories of his daily life among family and friends. There were few enough of them—he had to rack his brains to find any fleeting moments of peace and warmth scattered among a life filled with pain and disappointment. 

Oddly, it was in telling those stories—sometimes about nothing more momentous than a song sung or a good meal shared with friends—that he discovered a sense of quiet joy. And in his stubborn determination not to reveal his quest to reclaim Erebor for the dwarves, he found his goal taking on a reality and urgency greater than he had ever felt before. 

Erebor. The lost home of his clan—the peace and prosperity that was their birthright—he found its memory burning brightly in his heart. And he grew even more impatient for his freedom. 

 

"Is that all?" King Thranduil lounged on his throne, deceptively languid, resting his head on one index finger pressed to his temple. His sharp, hooded eyes bored into his Captain of the Guard.

Tauriel held herself rigidly at attention as she gave her report to the Elf King. “Sire, you said he was to be treated properly.”

“So I did.” He gave the faintest of sighs. “I also said that you were to discover his purpose in coming to Mirkwood. And you have not.”

Her throat closed. The King was displeased with her. Tauriel thought back to that first evening she'd spent guarding Thorin. He'd shouted something about the dragon's hoard...but what if that had been just a boast that he'd never meant to carry out? Some wild claim he'd made, hoping his captors would treat him with respect? It would be a far-fetched plan indeed. She was not so dishonorable as to let him suffer over a few words spoken in the heat of the moment. “I shall try again, my liege.”

Thranduil leaned forward and pierced her with a glare.“You do that.” 

 

A few days later, she brought Thorin the usual tray of food. As he dug into the coarse bread, she pulled up a small stool outside the bars, and sat. 

“You never answered my question,” she said. “You've had several days to think about it. Time's up.”

Mouth full, he raised one eyebrow inquiringly. 

“I asked what the women of your people look like.”

He frowned, trying to remember when she'd asked him that. 

“So, you owe me.” She smiled. “Tell me now and discharge your debt.” 

Over the past week or more, he'd gotten to know all her smiles. Some of them weren't even remotely positive expressions—and this was one of that variety. He guessed that something bad had happened, something that had seriously upset her. The trick would be to divert her attention from her problem, then getting her to talk without realizing it. 

He reached for a wooden cup filled with water. “There are all kinds, just like elf women. Mothers, sisters, princesses. Captains of the guard.”

“I thought your women didn't like to fight,” she said accusingly. 

“They don't,” he said. “Well, most don't. Maybe you elf women are more different from dwarven women than I thought. Do you enjoy fighting?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “I'd rather hack at someone with my sword than play politics. Shoot them dead with an arrow instead of killing them with words.”

“Oh ho!” He grinned. So that was it. “Playing politics? You must have friends in high places, Captain.”

“Not friends. My younger sister. Too young to know what kind of—” She snapped her mouth shut and looked away, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off a burden. 

“Maybe you underestimate her,” he said softly. “In any event, there's little to be done. You've got to let others make their own choices.” He felt strange mouthing those words. His brother had died after making his own choices. 

“Maybe you don't know what you're talking about.” She jerked to her feet and walked away, slamming her daggers into their sheaths. 

He concentrated on eating. Maybe he didn't, at that. 

She spun to face him. “Do you have a sister?”

He nodded. Anticipating her next question, he added, “Dis. She's logical. Practical. Down to earth.”

“Any wives?”

He shook his head. 

“Anyone you wanted to marry?” There was a gleam of malicious glee in her eyes. She was trying to pick a fight with him, to take her mind off whatever the problem was with her sister. 

“What would I have to offer a wife?” he asked bitterly. “A wandering life. I'm nearly as bad as you.”

She barked a laugh. “I would never make a good wife. Never even crossed my mind. But it's crossed yours.” She sat down again on the stool in front of the cell bars. 

“What if it had?” He tried not to think about it. Someday, someday, he told himself. When all this is over, when the prize was won...

“So who was she?” Tauriel wasn't letting this go.

He sighed internally. He wasn’t going to mention Iduna again—besides, he’d pretended she was someone else’s beloved. So he invented the perfect woman dwarf. “Oh, she was beautiful. And strong. Her name was—Freya. She had long hair, pale as starlight. Big dark eyes, and the softest, most delicate beard—” 

“Most delicate what?” Tauriel interrupted.

He looked up, jarred out of his imaginary conjuring. “What?”

“You said her beard,” she explained. “Do women dwarves have beards?”

“Yes, of course. We all do.” Thorin stroked his chin. The subject was rather personal. Dwarves didn't go around talking about their beards to all and sundry. Or at least they didn't discuss them with elves. Particularly not with female elves who stared so openly at a person's beard.

She looked fascinated. “Elves don't have beards.”

“I noticed.” He smiled wryly. “It makes your faces look bald.”

“Are the women's beards different from yours?” Tauriel was touching her bare cheeks, evidently trying to imagine herself with a beard. 

He drew in a breath. “Yes, they're different. Softer. Silkier. They are sort of—” he gestured with his hand, not sure how to describe what dwarf women did to make their beards so seductive. He shook his head. 

She looked up, her hands still lifted to her face. “Doesn't it itch? Having all that hair on your face?”

“No.“ This conversation was getting out of hand. He stood up and paced the tiny length of the cell. This stranger, this—elf—didn't need to know how dwarves felt about beards. It was private. She didn't understand. Couldn't ever understand. And he had had enough of her, so persistently inquisitive and so innocently rude. 

“That's enough. Beards are a personal matter. You don't stare at a dwarf's beard, you don't discuss it, and you definitely don't touch it. It's not right.”

“I beg your pardon.” She settled herself on the stool, quiet and thoughtful for a few moments. Then abruptly she began, “Have you ever—” 

“No.” He glared at her. “This coversation is over. Did you not understand?”

“Of course I understand,” she snapped. She jumped up and stalked away, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts. Her long dark hair fell in curtains around her face. The hilts of her daggers gleamed in the torchlight, and the brass ring of jailer's keys dangled at her waist. 

He considered her. She was skilled with her daggers. Probably good with a sword, and a bow as well. Almost certainly a capable hand-to-hand fighter, with a longer reach than his own, if less physical strength. 

On his side, he had a wooden tray. A wooden cup. His own bare hands. The bench in the cell was bolted to the wall, so it was no use as a weapon. If he could get her close enough to the bars of the cell, he could grab the keys from her belt. The first step was to lure her closer. 

It wasn't a very good plan. In fact, it was a ludicrous plan, but he'd been in the cell for days and he was out of ideas and options. He had to give it a try.

“Do you know what a beard feels like,” he asked softly. Maybe he could even get her daggers, despite the tricky catches on the sheaths. 

“Of course not,” she growled, her hair still shading her face. 

He could free himself, overpower her, and then fight his way out. He moved close to the bars of his cage-like cell. “Come and find out.” 

That brought her head up. She gave him a long, skeptical look. 

“Just in the interest of—satisfying your curiosity.” The rational part of his mind was shouting that this was a very bad idea. Possibly the worst idea he'd ever had. But he was out of good ideas, so it would have to do. 

Her eyes sparkled with renewed interest and she moved toward him, just as he knew she would. Volatile, curious elf. She was so predictable. 

Then she stopped, looking suddenly wary. It took all his self-control not to growl in frustration. He'd almost had her, keys, daggers and all. He held her gaze, willing her to forget any notion of taking the key ring off her belt.

“I'm probably the only dwarf you'll ever meet,” he said, making his voice compelling. “And dwarves don't let anyone touch their beards. In fact, I think I'd rather not—”

He made a move to step backward, as if he were going to change his mind. It brought her closer, like a fish on a line. But she stopped, just out of reach, her hands tucked up into her armpits as if she were cold. She watched him. 

He sighed and forced himself to move close to the bars of the cell. “Last chance.”

“Reach out and grab the farthest bars on either side of you,” she instructed. 

“Don't you trust me?”

“Not a lot,” she said sweetly. 

This was definitely turning out to be a bad idea. However, he could still back out—he didn't have to go through with this if she planned to truss him up, or if she set aside the keys which still hung tantalizingly from her belt. Even with his arms stretched wide, he thought he might be able to make a grab for the keys, if she were sufficiently distracted. And if he were quick enough. And not tied to the cell bars. 

Clearly he'd gone insane. 

He stretched his arms wide and grabbed a bar on either side. She relaxed and took a step closer, her eyes fixed on his.

He felt completely exposed. To let her touch his beard—it was a giant step of intimacy, a free-fall into a trust which he had no guarantee she would honor. To let someone, anyone, feel the coarse bristle of his beard, handle the curve of his jaw, detect the pulse that beat so strongly under the delicate skin of his neck, was a surrender he doubted he could achieve. Maybe he could just die right now and be done with it. He closed his eyes. 

Then he felt her hand, small and surprisingly hot, touch his cheek. Her fingers were gentle, their touch light and tender. It felt good. 

He opened his eyes and found himself gazing directly into hers. They were the sweet color of hazelnuts, golden brown streaked with green, like the changing forest leaves of autumn. 

Her fingers slid down the side of his face, then under his chin to curl in the thicker hair that covered his throat. His heart was beating hard, the rushing sound filling his ears. He made an effort to breathe steadily through his nose. He was in control. He was the master of himself. He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the cell bars. 

“So soft,” she said in tones of wonder and delight. Her face was filled with awe. “You were right. I never knew.”

Her hand was tangled in his beard, and then her fingers skimmed over his lips. Inside his chest he felt an ache as if his heart had finally been released from a tight metal shackle, bringing both relief and unbearable pain. He pulled himself together enough to smile at her. His eyes were not focusing properly, and she looked hazy, as if he were seeing her through a fog. 

She reached up and tugged at his wrist, pulling his hand off the bar. He felt a sudden surge of alarm, but before he had time to react, she lifted his hand to her face. 

“This is how different we are,” she said. 

He stroked her smooth hairless cheek, marveling at its velvet softness. With his fingers he explored the feel of her, the alien beauty of her smoothness, strange and compelling in its loveliness. Then he touched something wet, and he realized she was crying. Her face was still, serene even, but tears were falling silently down her cheeks. 

He searched her face for some explanation, looking deep into her eyes, studying the slight wrinkle of her brow. To his surprise, he understood. “Lonely. You're lonely.”

She drew away and laughed shakily. “I'm a fool.” 

It wasn't until she'd turned away that he realized he'd forgotten all about getting the keys from her. A second later, he realized his own cheeks were wet, too.


	4. Chapter 4

Tauriel's legs wobbled under her as she retreated to the small jailer's nook. She sat down just in time because a moment later Sethiel stalked in, flanked by several gorgeously robed courtiers and a troop of archers. Looking imperious in a splendid new cloak, the archer ignored the scuffling and shoving behind him as his entourage crowded into the small space.

“The prisoner is to be brought before King Thranduil,” Sethiel announced. 

To annoy him, Tauriel leaned back in her seat and nodded toward Thorin. “There he is.” 

Sethiel frowned impatiently, which lightened her mood a little. He was a pompous idiot. But what did the new cloak signify? Apparently Sethiel had been currying favor with someone. Well, he might as well get on with what he'd come to do—she couldn't stop him from taking Thorin away.

She wasn't going to look at the dwarf. Wasn't going to think about him. As far as anyone knew, nothing had happened. Nothing. 

Thorin sat in his cell looking especially rock-like and inscrutable. How could he have been so warm and alive just moments ago? She crossed her arms and gazed down at the floor. They hadn't just...No. Nothing had happened. Perhaps she could just die right now, and never think about “nothing”again.

She kept her eyes averted as the archers removed Thorin from the cell, bound his hands before him with an excessive quantity of heavy chains, and marched him out of the dungeon. She didn't think he looked at her, but a weight seemed to press down on her heart after he was led away. She ignored it.

Sethiel brought up the rear. Once the others had passed through to the corridor, the young archer turned on his heel, making his cloak flare out dramatically. Then he stopped and turned back to her. With a mocking bow, he said, “Oh, and Captain, the King requests your presence as well.” 

He left, his cloak punctuating his exit with a flurry of flourishes and swirls. Tauriel sighed and took her long gray cape off a peg on the wall. The Throne Hall of the Elf King was usually cold, and the cape would keep her warm, as well as dress up her plain uniform. Also, she thought sourly, she might need it to make dramatic gestures with—it seemed to be the thing to do at court these days. She closed the cape at her neck with a silver leaf pin, one of the few jewels she'd managed to keep when everything—home, family, friends—had been destroyed by the dragon's fire so many years ago. 

It had been many years after Smaug's arrival, but the dragon had still emerged from time to time to hunt for food. Destruction and death were just a side entertainment for the evil creature, and the virulence of the attacks seemed to vary depending on its moods. Tauriel's entire village had been wiped out, burned to the ground for no better reason than a dragon's fit of pique. Only she and her sister had survived, with nothing of their own but Tauriel's bow and quiver, Tuviel's basket of fresh-picked berries, and the clothes they stood up in. 

And so the two of them had made their way to the community of elves surrounding the King's palace, where Tauriel had done her best to provide for herself and her little sister, first working as an archer and gradually rising to become Captain of the Guard. Meanwhile, Tuviel had blossomed into a graceful young beauty, too headstrong to listen to her older sister's warnings that those such as she were the natural prey of courtiers. 

Chances were good that Tauriel would see her sister among the nobles who clustered around the King. She hoped they would both be pleased with what they saw of one another—no matter how different they had become, they were still family. It would always be just the two of them against the world. In the end, they had no one else.

Tauriel adjusted her daggers, and strode out of the dungeon. 

 

In the Hall of the Elf King, a crowd of courtiers in bright robes and flashing jewels sat on low benches or lined the walls, laughing and chattering like colorful summer birds. Great braziers burned in the corners of the vast stone hall, shedding light but little heat.

Thranduil, King of the Elves of Mirkwood, sat on his throne on a richly-carpeted dais. His plain gray elven robes made him look mild, but the slender silver band on his brow was set with a sparkling crystal at the center, gleaming like a wicked third eye. 

Before the dais stood Thorin, looking defiant and oddly regal despite his hands loaded down with chains. He was glaring at the King. Tauriel suppressed an impatient growl. Stiff-necked, quarrelsome dwarf. This audience would go much, much better if he weren't determined to fight everyone in sight. 

The King noticed Tauriel immediately, and with a slight jerk of his head, indicated that she should take a place at his right side. She obeyed, standing at attention, looking out at the assembly and watching the King out of the corner of her eye. 

On the King's left stood Sethiel, his bow in his hand and an arrow nocked. Tauriel frowned. Who was the fool going to shoot at here, in the Hall? She glanced around and saw several more archers scattered along the edges of the crowd, their bows drawn and arrows pointed at Thorin. Uncivil behavior, indeed! The King didn't seem to notice.

She was wondering how to point out to the King that his archers were threatening a bound prisoner who, so far as anyone knew, had done nothing wrong, when her eyes were caught by a sudden agitation among the courtiers. A beautiful dark-haired elf woman had flung her hand up, and the gems on her bracelet had caught the light. She was holding something in her raised hand, and the handsome courtier at her side was trying to take it from her. Laughing, she evaded him for a moment and then allowed him to recover his prize. 

Tauriel caught her breath. It was Tuviel. Her younger sister, dressed in jewels and finery, sat beside Ruthien, that snake, that corrupter. Tauriel tensed her muscles, ready to move, but at that moment the King spoke. 

“So, dwarf,” the King began. 

“My name is Thorin, your Majesty.” 

Tauriel rolled her eyes. How could he turn such simple words into an insult? And why didn't he have better sense than to antagonize the King?

“Ah. One mystery cleared up. But the greater mystery remains.” The King tilted his head to one side. “What are you doing so far from your rocks and tunnels, Thorin the dwarf?”

Several courtiers tittered in appreciation. 

Thorin's beard jutted out. “Passing through, your Majesty.”

“And where are you going? For what purpose are you passing through Mirkwood?”

“Nothing and nowhere important, your Majesty,” Thorin said. “I'm just an unfortunate traveler who lost his way.”

Tauriel flicked a startled glance at the dwarf. Someone should have told him long ago that he couldn't deceive a blind squirrel with that fake and syrupy tone of voice. Deception was not natural to him at all. Grumpiness, irascibility, bluntness, honesty—these were the qualities he possessed in ample measure, along with a certain wry sense of humor. But he was a terrible liar. 

“The other dwarves—my companions,” Thorin asked. “Are they well? I haven't had any news of them since we were lost in the forest.”

“You and the others attacked my people without provocation!” Thranduil declared. 

“We were starving, your Majesty,” Thorin shot back. His eyes glittered with anger. “We simply meant to ask for food. We didn't mean any harm.”

“You were starving because you ventured into Mirkwood—when anyone would know that food is more plentiful outside of Mirkwood,” the King countered. “Anyone would know that jobs for wanderers are more easily to be found outside of Mirkwood. Everything an ordinary traveler could want, can be had outside of Mirkwood. So, I ask again. What are you doing in Mirkwood?”

“We lost our way—” 

“The truth!” Thranduil thundered. “I will have the truth out of you, by the Valar!”

“My business is my own.” 

“Truth!” roared the King. 

A flicker of movement at the corner of Tauriel's eye made her turn her head. Sethiel had raised his drawn bow and was pointing it at Thorin. Aghast, Tauriel looked to the King for guidance, but he was fully engaged in his battle of wills with the dwarf. Her eyes skimmed the room, and she saw that the other archers had all raised and drawn back their bows. 

A dozen arrows were pointed straight at Thorin's unprotected heart. If he didn't answer the King, they were going to kill him.

“My liege,” Tauriel barked sharply. 

The King turned to her. “Do you have any information to share about the dwarf's intentions, Captain?”

She hesitated. “No, but—” 

His eyes still on her, the King made a brief gesture to Sethiel. The archer nodded, and drew his bow back even tighter. He aimed his arrow in a slightly different direction, pointing somewhere behind the Thorin. 

Tauriel glanced around the hall. All of the archers had changed the direction of their aim. For a moment, she was puzzled. They would never hit the dwarf at that angle. Instead, their arrows would shoot directly into the crowd of courtiers. 

She followed the likely path of their flight with her eyes until she reached the end point. Icy terror splashed through her veins.

The arrows were all aimed at her sister Tuviel.

“Captain?” The King's voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance. “Any comments?”

Her sister was going to die. Blackness was swarming at the edge of her vision, and she struggled to breathe. Everything slowed to a crawl. Ages passed as she looked up at the King's faintly mocking face. Eternities bloomed as she fought to think of something, anything to say. What could she do? Unless she spoke, her sister would be dead, pierced through the heart, killed right before her eyes. 

Tauriel drew in a breath. “The dwarves are planning to kill the dragon Smaug and retake its treasure for themselves.” 

The Hall erupted with shouts and cries as the courtiers rose to their feet in consternation. The arrows wavered and then fell as the archers pointed their weapons to the ground. Her sister would live. Tauriel's knees almost buckled under her with relief.

“Lies! She lies!” the dwarf's deep voice boomed, drowning out the uproar that Tauriel's words had provoked. “Wicked deceiver! I tell you, she lies!”

“Do you deny the Captain's assertions?” The King's voice sounded cool, almost smug, despite the chaos around them. 

Tauriel couldn't look up. Her entire body revolted against what she'd done—betrayed a friend. For Thorin had been her friend. No matter that they were strangers, aliens, from different peoples, their souls had touched. Together, though they were both trapped in a jail, they had escaped loneliness. And now, that friendship was lost. She had revealed something that she knew he intended to keep secret, and he would never forgive her. She was alone once more.

“I deny it all!” said Thorin furiously.

“Do you have some other explanation, some other reason, for your presence in Mirkwood?”

“Not another word will I speak,” Thorin said in a quiet growl more deadly than any shout. 

“Very well,” said the King. “Take him away and keep him safe, until he feels inclined to tell the truth, even if he waits a hundred years.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I'm rather disappointed in you, Captain,” the King said. “I expected you, of all people, to confide in me first.”

The Hall of the Elf King was quiet now, and empty except for Tauriel, King Thranduil, and Sethiel. The young blond archer was grinning, not even trying to hide his glee. Tauriel was certain that he had engineered this whole scene in an attempt to disgrace her—make her look like she was hiding information, siding with Thorin against her own liege lord. And he'd done it by threatening the life of her sister.

How had Sethiel known about Thorin's reckless claim, made that first night, that he was going after the dragon's hoard? Had the archer snuck back to the jail after she'd sent him to ask about cutting the bindings on Thorin's wrists? She'd thought she heard something outside—it must have been Sethiel, sneaking and eavesdropping. 

Tauriel drew in a deep breath. “Sire, I didn't think you wanted to be bothered with every idle boast that passed a prisoner's lips.” 

“The King should be the one to decide what is an idle boast, and what is a vital clue to an enemy's plans,” Sethiel declared. 

Thranduil silenced the archer with a look, but turned to Tauriel and said, “He makes a good point. Well?”

Her future—and her sister's future as well—was balanced on a knife-edge, but now anger overwhelmed her fear. She snapped, “Can you say, your Majesty, that you have any more information about the dwarf's plans now than you did before? Did Sethiel's little drama make him reveal the truth about his intentions here?”

The King sat back in his throne and tapped one finger thoughtfully against his lips.

“No, it didn't. Th- the dwarf denied everything. As Captain of the Guard,” she glared across at Sethiel, “it's my duty to provide you with solid, reliable information. Not to bore you with every meaningless thing a prisoner says. Now, I doubt we will get anything further from him.”

“No doubt you're right, Captain,” the King said with a sigh. “But I think you may have let yourself get too close to your prisoner. So, you are relieved of active guard duty and placed on administrative service. Sethiel will take over your guard shifts.”

Both Tauriel and Sethiel opened their mouths to protest. The King raised his hand. “No, don't thank me. Sethiel, you may leave.”

The archer left, sullen disapproval evident in every line of his body. He clearly didn't expect to be rewarded with more work—probably had hoped to be made Captain in her place. Tauriel waited, standing at attention. 

Thranduil drummed his fingers on the throne. “Captain, I really can't be threatening your relatives every time I need you to tell me what I want to know. It's far too much effort. I trust you will not make me test your loyalty again. Now go.”

 

Thorin's new cell was located even deeper in the palace dungeons than the first one had been. Instead of a cage, he was placed in a stone room with a thick wood door pierced by a small rectangle at an elf's eye-level, through which an occasional gleam of torchlight shined. Not that there was anything to see.

Most of the time, he was left in the dark. The elf jailers brought food, but otherwise left him alone. No one came to question him about his intentions, challenge his statements to the King, or even to mock him. 

He didn't want to speak to anyone, anyway. 

Everything that had happened was his own fault. He was the leader of the dwarves, and he didn't know where they were, or if they were safe. It was his duty to look out for them, his duty to make decisions that would lead them to success. But he had not done so.

With Tauriel—the Captain—the elf—his mistake had been one of judgment: He had thought he knew her. He had thought he could trust her. He had thought—more fool he—that there had been a core of understanding, of sympathy, of friendship and loyalty, between them. But he'd been wrong.

The scene replayed itself in his mind, over and over, the elf king demanding truth, and then the Captain's—the elf's—clear voice, baldly laying out the truth he'd wanted so desperately to conceal. In his memory her voice sounded cold, pitiless, scornful. Like something from a nightmare, she had worn the mask of friendship in private, only to tear it off in front of a crowd and show her heartless elf nature. 

He tried to tell himself that this image was true. There had never been anything between them. He'd told her stories and bandied meaningless words with her, just to gain her trust. He had tried to seduce her by offering to let her touch his beard, just so he could steal her keys. He'd been using her—and if things hadn't turned out the way he'd hoped, well...it had been nothing but a gamble, an unfortunate roll of the dice. 

But then he would remember the bright flash of her smile or the grassy scent of her hair, and his newly-hardened heart crumbled to dust in his chest. 

The truth was, she was joyous and filled with a zest for life. She had a streak of kindness that softened the edges of her strong sense of duty. The truth was, in their talks he'd shared himself with her in ways he'd never done with anyone else. The truth was, he would have said anything, done anything—given anything he had—to see her again and touch her one more time. 

He didn't know why she'd revealed the nature of his quest, but every attempt he made to banish her from his mind made her more real, more vital, more necessary to him than ever. The thought that she was lost to him forever crippled him with pain. 

He knew he had to build up his anger, use the fire of it to work out a way to get free. Anger would give him strength. But she had broken down the wall around his heart, and he couldn't brick it up again. He had nothing to work with, nothing against which to sharpen his will. There seemed nothing left but despair. 

Maybe he should tell the King the truth. He could beg the Elf King for mercy and assistance, and promise to hand over a share of the treasure once the dwarves had defeated Smaug. He pictured the happiness in Tauriel's face when she learned that they were allies against a common foe. The surge of relief and joy almost broke his heart. 

Ah, he was wretched indeed, if he were so low that he considered her smile worth so great a prize. Nothing less than the dreams of a lifetime, and the pride of his people! Yet at that moment, he would have given them all up, just for a token of her approval. 

He disgusted himself. 

Outside the door of his cell, he heard a very un-elvish rustle and a familiar, fussy voice. “Ouch!” 

He scrambled to the door. “Hobbit! Bilbo Baggins, is that you?”

“Ah, Thorin! There you are, finally! I have had the most dreadful time – oh, it's been simply awful. If you only knew!”

Thorin leaned back against the stone wall of his cell and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. 

 

Before reporting for her administrative duty, Tauriel gave strict orders regarding the rotation of guards on duty in the dungeons. She was still Captain of the Guard, after all, and she wanted to make sure that Sethiel would be placed where he could do the least harm. She assigned him to the main group of cells, where his malicious tendences would be held in check by the presence of others—prisoners as well as guards. 

Then she went to find the King's butler. Instead, she found a couple of young Guards loitering in the courtyard and stopped to administer some discipline. Just because she wasn't going to be around for a while did not mean that other people could slack off. 

As a result, she was a bit disheveled when she finally reported to Galion, the butler. The elderly servant harrumphed and led her off to inventory the contents of the royal pantry. 

The quiet moments she spent counting bins of root vegetables and barrels of grain were the most miserable of all. Peaceful quiet had become her enemy—whenever her attention wasn't engaged fully with working or fighting, her thoughts crowded in. Her mind lashed her mercilessly with memories of Thorin's shocked face, and the sound of his deep voice shouting “Liar!” 

It did no good to tell herself that she hadn't forced him to divulge the secret of his mission to her. Equally useless to argue that she'd held out as long as she could, and that she'd only spoken when her sister's life had been at stake. It didn't even matter that she owed Thorin nothing—she hadn't even promised him that she wouldn't tell anyone. There was no forgiveness for her, no relief from her agony of guilt. 

The hours they had spent together had been precious to her. She was still amazed to realize how alike they were, she and Thorin, despite their differences. And even those differences had been a source of delight to her—he was mysterious and fascinating yet somehow familiar at the same time. She had never met anyone like him before. It would take a lifetime to know him well, and even then he would surprise her. 

In the time they'd had, she had learned something of his nature. His trust was not easily given, but he would be stubbornly loyal to those he cared about. He was a fierce friend, a relentless foe, and a determined fighter for his goals. Somehow, without her knowing or intending it, they had developed an understanding that crossed the barriers between their two peoples. The sweetness of their friendship, so unlike anything she'd ever known, had brought her a joy that pierced her soul.

But whatever bond had been forged between them was broken now. She had destroyed it. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and was glad there was no one there to see.

 

The days passed, hollowed-out, empty and pointless. After a week of staying away, Tauriel ventured down to the dungeons. The patrols had captured more dwarves and they were being imprisoned several levels away from where Thorin was kept. She wasn't going to go down there—she couldn't face him—but she thought she'd see how the others were faring.

She heard the clamor before she got to the cell bank. 

In one of the cage-like cells, Sethiel stood over the fattest of the dwarves. The prisoner had been tied by his arms to the bars of the cell, and the archer had his dagger drawn. Erian, one of the younger guards, was standing in the hallway, protesting ineffectually. 

Tauriel sprang past the dithering guard. She grabbed Sethiel's knife-hand by the wrist and fisted her other hand in the archer's long golden hair. Pulling with all her might, she swung him around and slammed him against the rear wall of the cell. He landed with a satisfying crunch.

“What do you think you're doing?” she shouted. Without waiting for an answer, she spun him to face her and smashed her fist into his nose. “Get out, and don't let me catch you down here again.”

Sethiel staggered out of the cell, one hand raised to his bloody nose. “You'll regret this.”

“Not as much as you will, I promise you.”

He stumbled out. Tauriel untied the dwarf, barely hearing his stammered thanks, and then turned to Erian. “What has been going on here?” she demanded.

The guard was staring at her, slack-jawed. Clearly not the brightest blade in the armory. He collected his wits. “Commander Sethiel had just begun his program of intensive questioning.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Intensive questioning? Is that what he called it?”

Erian nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

She felt like driving her fist into the wall. Keeping her temper under tight control, she said, “Sethiel is not a commander of anything. He is no longer allowed in this or any other cell bank. And there is to be no questioning, intensive or otherwise, by anyone around here. Not while I am still Captain of the Guard. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

She turned to go before she did something unforgivable to the dim-witted young guard. 

“Uh, Captain?” Erian looked nervous. “Is it true what Commander—I mean, Sethiel said about you and—” He tipped his head at the dwarfs in their cells. 

Apparently Sethiel was implying something unsavory about herself and a particular dwarf—Thorin. Rage boiled up inside her, almost dizzying in its intensity. She clenched her jaw, not trusting herself to speak. 

Alarmed, the guard backed away from her. “Uh, I guess not. Beg pardon, Captain. Sir.”


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Tauriel had climbed up the stairs from the dungeons, the King's elderly butler, Galion, had heard about her dispute with Sethiel. Fortunately, Galion had taken her side, and talked the King into sending Sethiel out on an extended patrol. 

Unfortunately, it had been too late for Tauriel's reputation. Among the courtiers, rumor traveled faster than fact and was believed more readily, so Sethiel's sly hints about a relationship between the Captain of the Guard and a dwarf prisoner had already done their damage. She still commanded the respect due to her position, but as a rumored dwarf-lover she wasn't welcome in many parts of the Palace. She stayed away from her sister, to avoid causing Tuviel any trouble. It made for a boring and lonely existence.

Gritting her teeth, she pretended not to care. It didn't make any sense, anyway—she had revealed Thorin's secret in front of everyone, betraying him. How could anyone imagine her to have been...what she most certainly hadn't been. At the moment, he probably hated her. But she couldn't help thinking about him. She wanted to talk to him again. Elbereth help her, she wanted to touch him again. 

It was worst at night or when she was alone. So she found extra work duties to busy herself with or else she practiced archery, sword-fighting and hand-to-hand combat until she was aching and sweaty and fell exhausted into a dreamless sleep.

Only Galion took pity on her. The old elf seemed not to notice the gossip that swirled around her—though he probably heard every bit of it—just as he ignored her prickly moods and constant sighs. She would have hugged the dear old elf, if she hadn't known that he would have been horrified by such a breach of etiquette.

A few nights after Sethiel's unwilling departure, Galion appeared as she made ready to leave the Palace. She had lingered long after her appointed time was up, unwilling to face another night with no company but her thoughts, so she was glad to see him. 

She nodded to him. “Galion.”

“Now, come with me,” the butler said, “and we shall taste the new wine that has just come in. I shall be hard at work clearing the cellars of the empty wood, so let us have a drink first to help the labor.”

She hid her smile. “Very good. I'll taste it with you, and see if it is fit for the King's table. There is a feast tonight, and it would not do to send up poor stuff.”

“Poor stuff?” the butler said, insulted. “This is wine from the great gardens of Dorwinion. You'll never taste a better vintage! Not that you rough guards are cultivated enough to appreciate such a divinely heady nectar.”

Tauriel laughed at that. “I'm so glad you're helping me to elevate my tastes.” 

Galion led the way down to the wine cellar. “It's good to hear you laugh, my dear. You haven't done so in quite a while.”

She shrugged. “Nothing's been funny.”

 

Thorin thought there was no sweeter sound than the whispered commotion made by twelve dwarves and one hobbit as they unlocked his dungeon door. 

Squinting a bit in the torchlight, he smiled at the hobbit. “Gandalf spoke true, as usual. A pretty fine burglar you make, it seems, when the time comes. I am sure we are all forever at your service, whatever happens after this. But what comes next?”

Bilbo explained what he'd learned about the King's feast, and how the elves threw out their empty wine barrels. The dwarves would hide in the empty barrels. The elves, all unknowingly, would throw the barrels (and the dwarves) into the river through the trapdoor in the cellar. The dwarves would bob to freedom.

Thorin cut short the dwarves' noisy complaints. “You bob or you stay.”

The dwarves and the hobbit crept into the cellar with the trapdoor. Empty barrels were stacked against the stone walls and the air was heavy with the fruity scent of wine. A light shone in from an adjoining room and as Bilbo coaxed the dwarves into the barrels, Thorin looked inside. 

A big wine flagon stood on the heavy table, and two empty cups lay on the floor. Puddles of wine marked the floor near the fallen cups, and a few small splashes spread around the two figures slumped over the table. 

One was an elf dressed as a butler, his hair touseled into a halo around his head. He snored gently, a smile on his face. Across from him, her head pillowed on her folded arms and her dark hair spread over her face like a cloak, slept Tauriel. 

Unthinkingly, Thorin stepped to her side and brushed the hair away from her face. She looked so vulnerable in sleep, her eyelids gently closed over those sparkling, inquisitive eyes and her full lips relaxed and slightly parted. His heart ached. 

He drew in a deep breath, swallowing the unexpected tenderness that threatened him. Touching her had been a mistake. At the very least, he risked waking her—she would have to sound the alarm and stop their escape. She had betrayed him once already. Of course she would do it again; it was her duty. But instead of feeling righteous anger, he wanted to wake her, tell her goodbye, say he was sorry for everything. He wanted her to hold him and tell him not to go. 

Behind him, Bilbo whispered, “Should we keep the Captain of the Guard's keys?”

“No,” Balin whispered back. “She isn't bad, for an elf. She was quite decent to us prisoners.”

Bilbo came forward and hung the ring of keys back on her belt. “Very well. That will save her some of the trouble she is in for,” the hobbit said. “It will puzzle them all, too. They will think we had a very strong magic to pass through all these locked doors and disappear.”

Thorin knew it was time to leave, but still he lingered, watching her for any sign of waking. Had she heard them in her sleep? Had she felt his touch? He wondered if, in the morning, she would remember him standing beside her and think it had been a dream. 

Bilbo flapped his hands at him. “Disappear!” the hobbit said firmly. “We have to get busy very quick, if that is to happen.”

Thorin stooped, bringing his lips close to Tauriel's ear. He hesitated, not knowing what to say.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, then walked out of the room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As related in “The Hobbit,” the dwarves and Bilbo escape from King Thranduil’s palace in barrels. After several more adventures, they make their way to the Lonely Mountain, where they camp outside the secret door marked on Thror’s Map. Now, they have to find a way to open the door.

Weeks later, twelve dwarves and one hobbit sat around the campfire outside the secret door into the Lonely Mountain. Just beyond the reach of the campfire’s light, Thorin paced. There had to be a way in. 

Bombur was talking. “That elf nearly carved my eye right out. The yellow-haired one, remember him? The one who made his cape swish around. Thought the ground wasn’t good enough to feel the touch of his boots.”

“Sethiel,” said Bifur. “Nasty piece of work.”

“That’s the one. Well, he had that pig-sticker of his close enough to pluck out my eyeball, and told me I’d better talk or else.” Bombur looked around significantly at the others. 

Thorin stopped pacing. He frowned. He hadn’t heard this story before. 

“Then the Captain came in. Oh, she was not pleased,” Bombur said with a chuckle. “Not pleased at all. She bounced that yellow-haired coward off a few walls, then punched his sneering little elf-face for him. He never came back, but he still caused trouble for the Captain. Called her a dwarf-lover, if you please, although she didn’t seem friendly to me above half.”

Abruptly Thorin turned and walked farther out into the darkness. He hadn’t thought about Tauriel in days, and always pictured her existence as having returned to normal once they had left. Dwarf lover. Hardly! More like, loved by – No. He shook his head to erase that thought.

He didn’t like to think about her. She confused him. All his life, he’d known that the secret to being a good leader was knowing how to get others on his side. A good leader knew his people. He knew what they were best at. He knew how to aim them like arrows toward his goal. He knew how to get them to share that goal.

He’d always relied on his gut instinct to guide him in understanding others, and that instinct had never failed him—at least, not with dwarves. He knew he was in uncharted territory with that hobbit burglar, Bilbo. Thorin hoped Gandalf’s recommendation (and a good contract) would go far in substituting for his usual perceptive ability there. Hobbits were a mystery.

But with Tauriel…He had thought he understood her. Yes, she was an elf, but they had shared so deeply, he’d thought his intuitions about her were correct. He sensed within her a deep loyalty, a steadfast purpose, and a lonely heart so like his own, and he’d believed he knew her. 

Then she had betrayed him. 

His heart tightened in his chest. Why had she done it? He didn’t understand. He could have sworn she would never have revealed the nature of his quest. They hadn’t discussed it, but his instinct, his sense of her, had told him she would have kept his secret. 

He wished he could see her again, after the dragon was disposed of and its treasure was his—the dwarves’—once more. He imagined her there in the great hall of Erebor, her eyes filled with desire for the gold piled everywhere. The satisfaction of denying her the smallest coin almost relieved his pain.

He tried to sweep these thoughts aside. He had been over it all before, and there were no answers to be had. He and his companions had new challenges to face. All he knew of Tauriel was, he had been mistaken in her and he would not allow himself to be mistaken again. 

He told himself he had no instinct for understanding those who were not dwarves. He would have to rely on what everybody knew: Elves were not to be trusted. Humans were just as bad. Only dwarves could be trusted to look out for the interests of dwarves. No exceptions based on his gut or his intuition, and especially not his feelings. 

He crossed his arms and heaved a sigh, looking out into the dark night.

Behind him, back at the campfire, he heard Bombur’s voice raised in a plaintive question. He didn’t catch what was asked, but Bifur’s response floated clearly through the night air. 

“Who knows? Thorin’s a moody one. Leave him be.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In “The Hobbit,” the dwarves find their way into the Mountain. After more adventures, the dwarves gain possession of the treasure stolen by Smaug the Dragon. But the armies of Elves and Men have gathered to dispute the ownership of the treasure with the Dwarves. Battle seems imminent.

On the giant grassy field between the two outstretched arms of the Lonely Mountain, three armies had gathered. Lances and arrows bristled as ranks of elves and humans faced off against the axes and broadswords of the dwarves.

Tauriel cast an angry glance at the mountain's stone face. In its center, a vast cave entrance once gaped—the doorway through which Smaug entered and left his lair. Now, the door was bricked up with giant blocks of stone dry-laid from end to end. Tiny slits marked the spots where an archer inside could shoot at anyone rash enough to approach the stronghold. At the bottom of the new wall a space was left open for the River Running to pass through. 

The Gate of Erebor. It made her so mad she could spit. Thorin had built that hateful barricade, shutting himself up inside the mountain like a turtle in his shell, and she wanted nothing more than to tear it down, stone by stone, with her bare hands. What was he thinking?

She'd heard him speak earlier, behaving with the same mulishness and irascibility he'd shown during his audience with King Thranduil. Fool of a dwarf. Now battle was about to be joined and it was all his fault. She needed to reason with him and (if necessary) force him to display the nobility of purpose that was his true nature.

“Halt!” cried Gandalf, who appeared suddenly and stood alone with arms uplifted between the advancing dwarves and the ranks that awaited them. “The Goblins are upon you! Behold! The bats are above the army like a sea of locusts. They ride upon wolves and Wargs are in their train.”

Fear gripped Tauriel. Goblins and Wargs. This was no longer a matter of stubbornness and greed. Thorin needed to know what was about to happen. He had to stop wasting his time and join in the fight, or evil would win the day. 

She swept her gaze over the battlefield, past the troop encampments and the tents with bright pennons marking the general's quarters. To the south, the ground rose up to form a small hill. Ravens circled overhead. Despite the dark roiling clouds overhead, she could see a hobbit standing on the hill and looking up at the threatening sky. He was in the company of a couple of dwarves. 

Setting her teeth grimly, she began to run. She knew this hobbit was one of Thorin's traveling companions, so he might be able to lead her to him. Then again, he might not—this was the same hobbit who very nearly had been pitched off a cliff by Thorin not too long ago. Apparently they were not on friendly terms at the moment. But that might make him more willing to help her, when she explained what she intended to do. 

Bilbo, that was his name. Bilbo the burglar, the magician who had snuck thirteen dwarves out of the Elf King's palace under her very nose—she didn't doubt he could sneak one elf into Thorin's stronghold inside the Lonely Mountain. She found him and introduced herself. 

“Ah, yes, the Captain of the Guard,” the hobbit said, looking nervous. “I do hope most sincerely that you didn't have too much trouble after – well, after the dwarves left.”

She pressed her lips together. It hadn't been easy. If she'd thought her life had been difficult while the dwarves were still her captives, it had been nothing compared to what happened after they escaped. Plus, she'd had a massive hangover to contend with.

But she stretched her mouth into the semblance of a smile. “I'm still walking and talking.”

“Ah, good. That's all right then.” Bilbo didn't seem very relieved.

Tauriel took a deep breath and plowed in. “I need you to take me to Thorin.”

“Me?” Bilbo squeaked. He rose up on his toes, as if he wanted to flap his arms and fly away like one of the ravens circling overhead.

She grabbed him and held fast. “You're a burglar. You sneak into and out of places. Just sneak me in, that's all I ask. You don't have to stay there. You don't even have to be in the same room with Thorin. Just help me.”

“No! Absolutely not.” The hobbit was trembling.

She looked deep into his eyes. There was goodness there, a willingness to do the right thing, and a hidden core of strength. She had to reach him, make him understand. “Bilbo. You know what's coming, don't you. An army of the most evil creatures. We need everyone to fight on our side. Thorin has to be told, he has to stop this foolishness and come out and fight.”

Bilbo looked very unhappy. “Very well. I'll take you in. But you can't tell anyone about the secret door. And you can't tell him I helped you.”

“I won't,” she said dryly. “No sense in getting myself pitched off the mountain, the way you almost did.”

 

 

Thorin paced back and forth near the entrance of a vast, cavern-like room. Once it had been the storeroom of Durin's palace. More recently it served as the lair of the dragon Smaug. 

The room's vaulted ceiling was lost in darkness high above, where the light of the dwarves' torches could not reach. Most of its large area was taken up by the dragon's immense hoard, piled up in the center like a shining hill of gold and jewels. 

Set upright near the spot Thorin paced was the massive gold Throne of Durin. Cups and plates of gold lay scattered around the small fire, showing where the dwarves had set up camp. 

The palace was a sad and ruined place. He had to think hard to recall even a wisp or two of the vibrant life and power that had once filled its halls. Its present dusty grandeur filled him with gloomy thoughts, and with an effort he shook them off. 

“Let's get this rubbish out next,” he said, pointing to piles of broken and rotted timbers. “See how much we can salvage. Then—”

“We should rest first,” Balin said. He looked at Thorin, concern in his eyes.

“And have a decent meal,” grumbled Oin.

“What about the others?” asked Gloin. He waved an arm in the direction of the armies of men and elves camped outside the newly-constructed Gate of Erebor. 

Thorin glared at Gloin. “Let them wait. They can sit there until they turn to stone, for all I care.” He turned and paced back toward the Throne of Durin. “They have no right—”

The rest of his words died in his throat. At the far corner of the storeroom, just at the edge of the torchlight, stood Tauriel. 

At first, for the briefest moment, his heart stopped. He blinked, but she was still there. His next thought was that his dreams had become waking images. He hadn't slept much recently. Perhaps he had fallen asleep without knowing it. But the Tauriel of his dreams was a bright laughing creature whose smiles were sweet and full of love. The Tauriel standing before him was scowling. 

Tauriel strode forward, both hands on the hilts of her daggers. “Who has no right?”

Thorin dropped into a battle-ready stance, but shot a quick glare at the dwarves by the campfire. “Who let her in here?”

She stopped a few feet away from him. “If you want to discuss rights, you'd better take a closer look at that pile of glittering trash back there.” She jerked one thumb at the dragon's hoard. “Not all of it came from the dwarves.”

He ignored her and addressed the dwarves in a deadly quiet voice. “I asked, who let her in here? Have any of you been conspiring with that rat of a hobbit?”

Bombur spoke up. “I let her in, O King. Maybe you should listen to what she has to say.”

Tauriel nodded at Bombur. “Thank you. I only came to speak to your king here. Even though I haven't had much luck dealing with kings lately. Not very pleasant.”

Thorin looked away from her for a moment. Of course the burden of blame for the dwarves' escape had fallen directly on Tauriel, the Captain of the Guard. The elf king's wrath must have been terrible—Thranduil was not a particularly gentle ruler. Thorin ground his teeth. He refused to feel guilty. He summoned up a sneer.

“What, your king wasn't grateful after you'd told him everything he wished to know? Told him exactly what we planned to do, so that he and thousands of elven archers could come here and steal our treasure right out from under us?” Bitterness filled him. “How you must have laughed to think of it—an easy prize for the picking, once we'd gotten the dragon out of the way for you.”

For a moment she went silent and pale. “How dare you,” she whispered. “The King's archers were about to kill my sister, right there in the throne room. I spoke to save her life.”

Understanding burst upon him like a light. He pictured the scene again: the King's gesture, and the way the archers had moved, pointing their arrows at a new target. She had been faced with a cruel choice—forced to betray him or watch her sister die. Of course she would protect her sister. Relief swept through him. She hadn't willingly revealed his secret. He felt lighter, as though a weight had been lifted from him.

“I didn't know. I misjudged you.” He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry for that.”

She nodded, her head bowed and her long hair shading her face. He couldn't see her expression. 

He frowned. “But why are you here? Is that what you've come to tell me?”

Her head came up at that. She threw back her shoulders and planted her feet. There was an angry glint in her eye. “I came to ask you,” she paused and then raised her voice to a shout. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Taking back what's mine,” he bellowed in return. 

“Is this what you want?” She jabbed a finger at the giant golden hoard of the dragon. 

“Yes!” They were shouting at each other, nose to nose. 

“And for this, you are prepared to let countless elves and men and dwarves die? Are you planning to build your kingdom on top of their corpses?” she demanded. “Is this what you want—to be the King of a golden tomb, squatting here in safety while outside your gate people are dying?”

He stared at her. Is that what she thought of him? 

She strode over to lay her hand on the Throne of Durin. In a quieter voice she said, “Is this the throne you hid under during that game of hide and seek, all those years ago? Back when Erebor was a place where your people lived and worked and prospered?”

Unable to speak, he nodded. 

“The Thorin I – knew,” she said slowly, “He wasn't looking for treasure. He wanted to bring his people back to their home.”

He waited. 

She moistened her lips. “Outside this mountain, the armies of men, elves and dwarves are preparing to fight. Not each other—they are about to be attacked by an army of goblins and wargs who have heard of the death of Smaug and come to claim his treasure. Outside, battle may already be joined. So what I want to know is, what are you going to do?”

Goblins and wargs! A chill went down Thorin's spine. He would have to tell the other dwarves right away. He began sketching out a battle plan in his mind. There was no time to lose.

But Tauriel wasn't finished speaking. With a quick movement, she stooped and hefted a golden breastplate that lay at the edge of the dragon's hoard. “Look at this—a golden breastplate. What good is this, except as a fancy-dress costume? Gold is too soft a metal for armor.” She dropped it on the floor, where it landed with a clang, and pulled one of her daggers out. 

“Wait—” Thorin said.

“My dagger could punch right through—” She stabbed down into the gleaming metal, but the dagger skidded off the breastplate with a screech. “Ow!” 

Thorin suppressed a snort of laughter at the surprise in her face. She was right about gold—alone, it was too soft to be effective as armor—but the breastplate she'd just attacked was more than an ornament. At least it had given him a chance to recover from the deadly accusations that she had leveled at him. He felt as if she'd woken him from a dream, and was ashamed to find that some of what she had said was true. 

He said with difficulty, “You are right. Thank you.” How had he not seen all this for himself? She must think him a wretched fool for having been so bewitched by the treasure. At least he had her to thank for caring enough to seek him out and set him straight. 

Now, no doubt she'd be glad to be done with him. Fool that he was. He felt a twinge somewhere in the area of his chest, and lifted his right hand to rub the sore spot with the heel of his hand. “We will join the fight against our common foe. You can go back to your people now.”

He turned away from her. He wasn't going to watch her leave. Besides, there was too much to do. He pitched his voice to be heard by all of his companions. “All of you, find some armor! Quickly! We have a battle to fight!”

But she stepped in front of him, blocking his path. He glared at her, already focusing on the battle ahead. 

“No. I won't leave. I am yours, if you want me.” She looked deep into his eyes, pleading. “Do you want me?”

Her words fell on his ears softly, just sounds at first, before their meaning fully bloomed inside him. In her eyes, he saw her love for him. Suddenly he was breathless. Did he want her? Oh, yes—most definitely yes! It was a miracle. Every fiber of his being sang with triumph. He wanted her, and he wanted her to know exactly what she meant to him. 

“Yes. I want you more than life.” Stepping close to her, he tenderly traced the curve of her cheek with his fingers. Solemnly, purposefully, he took her hand in his. “Tauriel. Will you fight by my side?”

Her eyes were shining. She understood him completely—another miracle.

“Yes, I will. Until the end of my days.” She held tight to his hand, her smile a little shaky. “Will you, Thorin?”

For a moment they were alone together, wrapped in the power of their love. His voice sounded husky in his own ears. “Yes, until the end of my days.”

He drew her fiercely into his arms, loving the way her supple body yielded to him, and kissed her.

Knee-deep in Smaug's pile of treasure, Fili and Kili paused in their search for pieces of armor to exchange a look of consternation.

“Can they do that?” Kili asked his brother.

Fili shrugged. “He’s the King under the Mountain.”

From farther away, Gloin piped up. “They will get no argument from me.”

“About what?” Bombur asked as he bustled into the room. Looking around, the portly dwarf saw Thorin and Tauriel locked in each others' arms. He grunted. “Right. Well, we’d better get to finding some armor that will fit the lass.”

“The lass?” Tauriel said incredulously. She looked at Thorin. 

Releasing her, he stroked his beard. “Let’s find you some armor.” He hurried off. 

“The lass?” she repeated, following him.

 

And so it was that the King under the Mountain and twelve other dwarves charged out through the Gate of Erebor into the Battle of Five Armies. In the gloom, the great dwarf gleamed like gold in a dying fire. And at Thorin's side, ablaze in her own golden armor, fought Tauriel the elf.


	9. Chapter 9

Thorin and his comrades leapt out through the Gate of Erebor, fierce and splendid in their borrowed golden armor. The goblins fell back a pace, surprised by their sudden appearance, but after a moment came howling back toward the dwarves and the elf captain.

Thorin pressed forward, swinging his mighty axe like a scythe. Wounded goblins shrieked and fell but fresh ones sprang into their place. The ground became slippery beneath his feet. 

To his right, Tauriel fought with a short sword, her daggers reserved for any attackers who got too close. Beyond her, Kili sent arrows flying at a snarling Warg. On Thorin’s left, Fili swung his notched blade down into the shoulder of a goblin who was trying to behead Dwalin. Other members of their company were ranged around them, fighting desperately against the relentless, seemingly inexhaustible waves of goblins.

Thorin quickly discovered that Tauriel was every bit as good a fighter as he’d supposed. Better. Still, he found that he was distracted by her presence. She was so precious to him; he couldn’t let her be hurt. He kept glancing her way to make sure she was all right, and once or twice he parried a particularly vicious blow aimed at her side. The armor she’d found (the same breastplate she’d tried to stab with her elven blade) was mithril and decorated with gold, but it didn’t quite cover her ribs under her arms well enough to satisfy him. 

He saw her drop her sword, so he quickly struck at the goblin attacking her. It snarled in pain. Tauriel plunged her left hand-dagger into the enemy before her, then spun to throw her other dagger past Thorin’s ear. It sank into the throat of another goblin, whose fingers clawed at Thorin’s back as it collapsed.

Tauriel turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “If you’d rather fight the goblins on this side, we should trade places. It’s easier than reaching across me all the time.”

He nodded and smiled apologetically. The elf he loved clearly could take care of herself. “As you wish,” he replied with a little bow, then pivoted to strike at a charging Warg. The beast fell to the ground dead. 

“Why, thank you, King Thorin.” She gave him a fierce grin. He grinned back.

Her long dark hair was plastered to her head underneath an ornate gold-embellished helmet. Her face was smudged with dirt and blood, but her eyes sparkled. Thorin thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, breathtaking in her power and her battle-joy. The light of her spirit shone bright as Gimlunitir, the star-kindler, queen of the Valar.

A guttural roar brought him back to reality, to the bloody chaos around them. Tauriel retrieved her daggers and sword, and returned to the fight. 

Thorin hacked and gouged at the enemy with grim determination, ignoring the deafening tumult of battle, the cries and howls and groans. He paid no attention to the stink of blood and the bodies that lay in increasing numbers on the battlefield. He concentrated only on defeating the enemy—or at least he tried. Despite his efforts, his mind and heart were focused on her. 

Then he heard it—the sound he had been dreading: Tauriel cried out in pain. 

He wheeled around, cursing, in time to see a pike being pulled from the vulnerable open spot under her arm. Over her fallen body stood a hulking goblin. A lightning bolt of rage and pain flashed though Thorin, erasing everything in his mind but the need for revenge and retaliation. 

His body seemed to move without his conscious thought. His great axe reached out and swept off the goblin’s head. 

“Fili! Kili!” he roared, and then he dropped to his knees beside Tauriel. He felt, rather than saw, the other dwarves move to create a protective circle around them on the small hill in the center of the battlefield. 

Tauriel’s eyes were glazed with pain, but she managed a weak smile as she met his frantic gaze. 

“What, are we taking a break already?” she joked. “Did all the goblins run away?”

“Don’t move, don’t worry. I’ll get you someplace safe. We’ll get you fixed right up. You’ll be fine.” He didn’t like the pallor of her face. He pressed his hand against her side to stanch the blood welling out of the wound. The sight of the injury wrung his heart. He hadn’t taken good enough care of her.

She exhaled a little puff of air, barely a laugh. “Smaug should have stolen better-fitting armor. I don’t think this breastplate protected me properly.”

“I should have protected you properly,” Thorin muttered in an agony of guilt. 

“Don’t be a fool, melamin.” With one hand, she reached up and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “So. You did it.”

He frowned. “Did what?”

“You won back the Lonely Mountain for the dwarves. The dragon is dead, and your people can return home.”

Bitterness filled him, sharp and burning like acid. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t kill the dragon. And I failed my companions—nearly killed one of them! I fell under the spell of the dragon’s gold and ruined everything.”

“No,” she soothed. “You are free from the spell now. And by going on your quest, you took the first step toward a better future for all of us. You opened the way for the dragon to be killed and for your people to return to their home.” 

Thorin shook his head. “Even the quest was mostly Gandalf’s idea. He put the thought in my head.”

“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was. What matters is who takes action on it. If you hadn’t done anything, fear of the dragon would still rule us all. You changed that.”

He stared at her, his heart so full of love it ached. How had he earned such sweet forgiveness and trust? He didn’t deserve it.

She winced in pain, and he stroked her hair in a vain effort to comfort her. He wished desperately that he’d learned the healing arts instead of war—at that moment, he would have given anything for the skill to help her. She didn’t love fighting; he knew she would rather be at play in her beloved forest. How had they ended up here, where they didn’t belong?

With an effort, she smiled up at him. “Now tell me the truth. Did you miss me, after you left the palace?”

He drew in a shaky breath. “No,” he said. He tried to smile back at her, but the expression came out twisted and wry.

“No?”

“No, because you were always in my heart. You were my first thought when I woke and my last before I slept. You never left me, not for a moment.”

“Oh.” The word was a sigh of pleasure and joy. Her strength was fading, but a brief sparkle lit her eyes. “Then I am greedier than you, Thorin, because I missed you so much it hurt. I longed to be with you, and my memory of our time together was not nearly enough to satisfy me.”

He licked his lips, struggling to hold his emotions at bay. “Then you had better plan on staying with me from now on, elf lady. I love you too much to let you go.”

“And I love you, always and forever.”

He glanced up, looking for a way to get her off the battlefield. The other dwarves were still fighting, defending the two of them from the goblins and Wargs. To his dismay, he saw that they were surrounded. The blood from her wound was still seeping out between his fingers. He pressed harder. “We will heal you. Don’t doubt it.” 

But her face had gone gray as ash, and her eyes dimmed. “Thorin,” she whispered. “Mela en’ coiamin.”

Then Tauriel’s spirit fled. Thorin knelt at her side, and wept. 

 

“Uncle Thorin!” Fili’s notched blade clanged against a goblin’s scimitar as the battle raged closer to Thorin, who still knelt over Tauriel’s body. 

“Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain!” Kili shouted. “The dwarves need you! You must fight! Look!”

Thorin looked up. A massive goblin warrior stood before him, wearing a battered helmet decorated with scraps of gold. Larger and more bestial than the others, this goblin’s heavy underjaw was thrust forward. Oversize canine teeth curved up, protruding over the upper lip. 

“Little dwarf fight,” the creature said with a growl. “Come fight Bolg.”

Blinded by grief and rage, Thorin swept up his axe and surged to his feet. “Guard her,” he shouted to Kili and Fili. Without hesitating, he swung at Bolg.

The giant goblin struck back. Thorin swung again, and this time felt his axe connect with goblin flesh. From somewhere far away, Thorin heard Kili or Fili shouting.

“No, uncle! Wait—“ 

Then Thorin heard no more. 

 

Slowly, Thorin swam up from black unconsciousness into a world of searing pain. He heard a babble of voices and felt, rather than saw, people moving around. He discovered that he was lying on his back, looking up at the canvas ceiling of a tent. Pain throbbed in his head and left arm. He couldn’t feel his legs. That bothered him for a moment, and he tried to reason out what it meant, but thinking made his head hurt worse.

Cautiously he looked around. He was lying on a cot, surrounded by others who were injured far worse than he was. Perhaps he should get up and help them. Strangely, he didn’t seem to be able to gather the will to move.

Gandalf’s seamed and weathered face appeared within his field of vision. “Rest, Thorin. Do not try to rise.”

“I am resting,” Thorin replied irritably. “Where is—“

“Hush, my friend,” the wizard said. 

Thorin glowered at him. “If you’re calling me ‘friend’ after all that’s happened over the last few days, then I must be in worse shape than I thought.”

Gandalf smiled a little sadly.

“Some wizard you are.” Thorin squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t like this. So many things left undone, unfinished! Life was sweet, and now that he felt it was slipping away he wanted more. What had happened? Suddenly the events of the battle came flooding back into his mind. He jerked his eyes open and looked at Gandalf. “What of the others? Are they all safe?”

The wizard’s gaze shifted away from him. “Most of them, yes. They are with Dain’s company.”

“Dain Ironfoot? Good. Good. He’s a good leader, seasoned…” Dain would lead his kinsmen, now that they had come home to the Mountain, as Tauriel had said. Tauriel. The memory of her, lying on the battlefield mortally injured, flooded his mind. 

He looked at the wizard. “The elf Tauriel. The Captain of the Guard. Is she—”

Gandalf shook his head, his eyes reddening with tears. 

Thorin let his head sink back onto the cot, his heart like lead in his chest. Emptiness howled through him. No reason to struggle now.

He wondered if it had all been worth it. Around his cot lay the golden armor he’d appropriated from the dragon’s hoard. Although it was dented and tarnished, a few deep scratches revealed the sparkle of gold winking at him. Beautiful though it was, gold no longer held any power over him. Tauriel had done that for him—she had shown him that some things were more important than gold.

At least, as Tauriel had said, the dwarves could now return to Erebor. And if he had not embarked upon this mad quest, he would never have met her. 

She had brought light and joy to his existence, but now she was gone. When he had been young, he’d learned about the halls of waiting, to which the spirits of all dwarves returned. Without her, he doubted whether such an afterlife would offer him any peace. He wondered if the Ainur ever took pity on the shades of mortals and elves.

But he had something to take care of before he found out. Thorin turned his head toward Gandalf. “Bilbo. Bring Bilbo the hobbit to me.”

The wizard departed and Thorin relaxed. Perhaps he dozed, but it seemed only a moment had passed before he heard his name spoken. At the entrance to the tent, he saw an elf speaking with Bilbo Baggins. The elf placed something in the hobbit’s hand, clapped him on the shoulder, and left. Bilbo came slowly over to his side. 

“Farewell, good thief,” Thorin said. “I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate.”

It was a long speech and Thorin was out of breath by the time he’d finished. But he knew Tauriel would have wished it. She hadn’t held any grudges against Bilbo, even though the hobbit’s rescue of the dwarves had caused her much difficulty with her King—and her conscience. 

Bilbo’s face crumpled in sorrow, and he knelt on one knee beside Thorin’s cot. “Farewell, King Under the Mountain. I—Oh, dear me, I nearly forgot! I have something here for you.” The hobbit held out a narrow leather pouch. “Legolas the elf said this was yours.”

Thorin smiled a little at Bilbo’s sudden change of subject. This hobbit! One moment, he was dwelling on the deepest of life’s mysteries, and the next, he was fussing about some trivial errand. He let Bilbo place the pouch in his hand, but said, “I don’t recognize this. What is it?”

“Well, Legolas says it has your runes marked on it, but the Captain of the Guard was wearing it on a cord around her neck,” Bilbo explained. “It was tucked beneath her tunic, so they didn’t see it right away.”

Thorin opened the drawstring. Inside the pouch was his whetstone—the one Tauriel had taken from him in the dungeon. Foolish elf, why had she worn this chunk of rock around her neck instead of tied to her belt, as he had done? It was only a whetstone, not a precious jewel to be worn so close to her heart. 

He drew it out and held it tight in his hand, wondering if the rough stone felt warm to the touch and whether it might still hold some lingering warmth from her. It didn’t, of course. He rested the hand holding the whetstone against his chest and looked at Bilbo. 

“Thank you.” His voice sounded rough in his own ears, because his throat was clogged. He felt so weary.

How different life would be, if whetstones were used only to sharpen tools and not swords! Tauriel herself was not a warrior by nature, though she could and did put her skills to that purpose. But she had been meant for peaceful things—for friendship, happiness, and fun. 

Bilbo was talking. “…yet I am glad that I have shared your perils—that has been more than any Baggins deserves.”

Thorin looked at the hobbit. If anyone had been made for peace and plenty, for ease and laughter and second breakfasts, it was this small, honest, stout-hearted person. But he had risen to the challenges life had cast at him. 

“No! There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell.” 

Thorin sank back. Odd that just saying a few words could wear him out like this. He felt stretched thin, as if the substance of his body were metal beaten by a smith into the flimsiest sheet.

He was glad he’d spoken to Bilbo. The hobbit would have grieved unnecessarily, if Thorin hadn’t given him a little talk. But now it was time. He was ready to go to the halls of waiting. Perhaps after he’d waited long enough, he would once again see a pair of sparkling eyes, green streaked with golden brown, like the changing leaves of the forest. 

Darkness enfolded him in its welcoming embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> melamin - Elvish for "my love"  
> mela en' coiamin - Elvish for "love of my life"


End file.
